All her excitement had gone, and her colour. She was
very pale, and quite calm.
"My dear Felicia!" cried Tatham, in agitation, taking the hand, "what a
position to put your guardian in! You are a great heiress. I can't run
off with you like this--before you've had any other chances--before
you've seen anybody else."
"If you don't, I won't take a farthing! What good would it be to me!"
She came closer, and put her little hands on his shoulders as he sat--the
centre of one of those sudden tumults of sense and spirit that sweep a
strong man from his feet.
"Oh, won't you take care of me? I love you so!"
It was a cry of Nature. Tatham gave a great gulp, put out his arms, and
caught her. There she was on the bench beside him, laughing and sobbing,
gathered against his heart.
The cheerful December day shone upon them: a robin sang in the yew tree
overhead....
Meanwhile the library was still full. Nobody had yet left it; and
instinctively everybody was watching the French window.
Two figures appeared there, Felicia in front. She came in, her eyes cast
down, a bright spot on either cheek. And while every one in the room held
their breath she crossed the floor and paused in front of Faversham.
"Mr. Faversham, I ask your pardon, that I was so rude. I--" A sob rose
in her throat, and she stopped a moment to control it. "Till the other
day--I was just a poor girl--who never had a _lira_ to spend. All that we
ate--my mother and I--we had to work for.
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